Serial killers, past memories and revenge
by FrancescaBoscorelli
Summary: AU in which Sherlock and Joan are together while the events of episode 1x12 took place. Companion to other stories from the series "Moments".


**A/N: Again, thank you so much for all the reviews and favorites and for reading. As you know this was intended to be a one shot fic, but someone asked me and now I can't stop writing this. Besides I'm having the greatest time ever. **

**Don't forget to review!**

_**Spoilers: If you haven't watched episode 1x12**_

_**Fran**_

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His eyes are fixed on the bees when she walks downstairs; he's so focused he barely senses her standing behind him, only when she places her hand on his shoulder he really sees her, and only then does he turn around and smile briefly.

"Why aren't the bees on the roof with the others?"

"I'm seeing how the indoor temperature suits them," he tells her, "Our six weeks together as companion client are nearly up, Watson. And I've been thinking about how this change in our lives will take place."

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"Well, I've been thinking about turning your room into a one large apiary."

"My room? Then where am I sleeping in?" She questioned him, not understanding where he was going.

"My room" he stated, quickly. Joan frowned, blinking rapidly for a few seconds. "It would make complete sense, if you think about it, since we have been together for so long that there is no need for you to have your own accommodation when we could share mine."

"Wait…" She took a few steps toward him. He had intentionally looked down to avoid her gaze.

"Are you asking me to move into your room?"

"Well of course…"

"You know if this were a complete different situation this would mean that you're asking me to live with you, right?"

"I know," he said, shrugging slightly.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Yes," he responded quickly, "I do. Actually I've been thinking about for quite some time."

"Sherlock, that…"

"No. Don't say it."

"Is the sweetest thing you've ever done," she smiled widely, immediately pulling him into a tight hug to which he responded contently, "I love you."

"Yeah. I know. Me too."

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.

.

She follows him inside the office at the station after hearing him explain who 'M' was to the cops. Joan had noticed how different he was acting the minute they found the first body, and now she had confirmed while he spoke with the police.

"How are you doing?" She asked him. He rumbled through a box full of papers, his head momentarily looking up at her.

"Quite well. Why?"

"You seem oddly cheerier."

"I do?"

"Yeah, and last night at the crime scene the way you were staring at the blood"

"I was struck I suppose. I mean, the moment I laid eyes on the scene I knew it could only be the handiwork of 'M'"

"And this morning?"

He stared at her, taking a few steps towards her and closing the door so no one could eavesdrop nor interrupt their conversation.

"Ten years ago, when M first started killing, I was an integral part of the investigation," he continued, "by the time he had claimed his 36th life, however, my addiction was out of control."

"Was? As it is not any more, I suppose," she asked him, confident his answer would be positive. By the way he hesitated she feared it wouldn't.

"I was useless back then, but his appearance here in the States is like a second change for me to bring him to justice."

The door opens suddenly, and Captain Gregson makes a quick entrance, drawing Joan and Sherlock's attention and interrupting their conversation.

"Let me ask you something," Gregson spoke, "This M character, what was his awareness of you back in London?"

"He addressed me in a letter or two, why?" Sherlock responded.

"Seems sort of coincidental don't you think? Him, coming to New York so soon after you?'

"You think he knows Sherlock is here?" Joan asked her, part of her fearing with the thought of him getting any closer to Sherlock.

"Probably…"

"Well I haven't considered that," Sherlock told him, shrugging as he spoke, "its flattering if you think about it"

"Well, I'm gonna place a couple of uniforms in front of your place until further notice," Gregson told them, closing the door behind him and ignoring Sherlock's protest.

"I truly don't believe that's necessary," he told Gregson, focusing once again in the box with loose papers. She approached him carefully, placing a hand on top of his.

"If this man knows you're here, chances are that he will come and get you," she whispered, her voice pleading him for any sort of response, "I don't want anything happening to you, Sherlock, not if we could do anything to help it."

"Nothing is going to happen to me…"

"You don't know that. If he knows you're here…"

"Joan," he spoke. She stopped at hearing him saying her name, mainly because he hardly ever did. "I'll be fine, I can assure you that. I will also assure you I will bring justice to this madman. There's absolutely nothing for you to worry about, I promise."

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.

.

"So, given that its after eleven our delivery options are a little more limited," Joan spoke, hanging her coat as Sherlock walked passed her into the parlor, "there is that Vietnamese place on 23rd but I think you said it was a front for songbird smuggling."

"Watson, I need you to be very, very quiet right now," Sherlock spoke. Joan moved towards him, scrolling on her phone as she walked, she felt his arm on hers and stopped.

"Why?"

"Because I believe our home has just become a crime scene," he responded. Both stared at a piece of paper, hanging from a lamp at his desk, an initial visibly on it 'M'.

.

.

Captain Gregson read the letter out loud for the third time; she didn't understand why he read it so many times if it was more than clear the man knew Sherlock was there and where he lived. He also knew he was looking for him; he knows how to get his attention.

She had moved away towards the kitchen, drinking her second glass of water to calm her nerves. There were cops everywhere, taking fingerprints from every place they could find and looking for every bit of evidence they could take. Sherlock was right; their house now felt like a crime scene.

"Hey." Sherlock placed a hand on her back slowly. She turned around and nodded "Are you okay?" he asked, though the question was unnecessary for he knew her too well; she was freaking out.

"He knows you're here. He knows you're after him," she spoke, her voice trembling slightly, "I know the last thing you want it your girlfriend freaking out but I can't help it. He was here, Sherlock."

"I know…" He whispered, pulling her into a warm hug. She felt his heartbeat, somehow soothing her slowly.

"I guess this answers the question whether he came to New York for you, huh?" Captain Gregson spoke, walking into the kitchen followed by Bell. Joan slowly pulled away from Sherlock's embrace upon seeing them walk in, but they didn't break apart, his arm tightly wrapped around her waist.

"My sincerest apologies, Captain," he whispered, looking down at the floor, ashamed, "If I'd have had any notion that my presence here would have drawn him to your city…"

"Hey! He's the twist, okay? Not you," Gregson responded, "you two should go pack a few things. I'm taking you to a safe house until this gets resolved"

"Captain, I hardly think that's necessary"

"What? There's a psychopath targeting you was inside your home and might hurt you and your girlfriend…"

Joan gasped, looking at Sherlock frowning slightly.

"Yes, I know about you two," Gregson responded, "but right now that's not the point"

"Look, if he wanted me dead he would have lain in wait, not left some note."

"Holmes…"

"He wants me fully engaged. That's all."

"I supposed that leaves you, Miss Watson," Gregson addressed her.

"I'll go where he goes," she responded. Sherlock gave her a light squeeze, dropping a tender kiss into her head as she spoke.

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.

.

The door closed behind him with a soft thud, walking a few steps towards the kitchen he was surprised to find Joan sitting there with a not so pleasant look on her face.

"Care to explain this?" She asked him, dropping a wrinkled photograph on the table. He remained silent. "I got it from a friend of yours, Teddy. No?" She got up, dropped an old book with a small hole in it "what about this? I took a look around the house while you were out; I found three others just like it. I can only imagine how many I didn't find. Its funny when we started living together you never mentioned anything about a surveillance system."

"This is our sanctum sanctorum," he spoke, "did you honestly believe there wouldn't be security measures?"

"Okay" she dropped the photo on the table again, pointing at the blurry figure of a man in it, "is this M?"

He approached her, taking the picture quickly. "I noted a curious scent on the note that he left. I quickly realize that was in fact a combination of scents. Those of a high-end hand soap and higher mint based shampoo. There's only one chain that stocks both, the Betancourt. My lieutenants and I each took one and waited for M." He spoke, taking steps away from Joan, who watched him, exasperated with her hands on her waist.

"That's very impressive but I want to know why are you doing this on your own and haven't called the police?"

"Several weeks ago you learned the existence of a woman named Irene Adler. I told you she died"

"M killed her" she stated.

"Obviously he realized the degree to which I was assisting the British police. He zeroed in on me, made it personal. I have no intentions of letting that happen again," he spoke, "as to why I'm keeping information from the NYPD is quite simple; I have no intentions of capturing him, I have every intention of torturing and murdering him."

Joan stared at him with wide eyes, hoping at some point he will tell her it was a joke, which never happened. He had made up his mind, he was so eager it frightened her. Before she could say something else he moved away with quick steps, out of the parlor in a matter of seconds. She waited for the shock to dissolve and the followed him suit.

"What do you mean you plan to torture and murder M?" She asked him, walking as quickly as he did.

"Hard to imagine I could have been much clearer, Watson."

"Hey this isn't a joke," she protests

"Of course it isn't, this is revenge," he tells her, "I've been dreaming about this moment for one year, six months and twenty two days to be exact. That's when he killed her."

"Irene…" she sighed, "you were in love."

It wasn't a question; she knew it, even though their conversations about exes and past relationships have been short, she knew he had been in love with her. She wasn't jealous either. Irene was part of Sherlock's life; she was his and he loved her. She had learned to accept she had been a very important part of him.

"Prior to her murder, my drug use had been purely recreational. Something to do when I was bored or during a particularly challenging investigation," he spoke, collecting objects around the house Joan noticed might be useful for his purposes of torture. "After Irene, I lost control…"

"Look, I'm grateful to hear the whole story, but you've come a long way since London," she told him, standing in his way, trying to stop him from moving any further though she knew it would be useless. "I'm not gonna let you lose everything, risk your life chasing a psychopath."

"You don't understand, Watson," he spoke, standing closer to her so she could feel his scent, his warm breath "you've been a motive for me to continue my pursue of 'M'. When I found that letter, millions of ideas rushed to my head. What if I'm gone and you're here alone and he shows up. What if he knows who you are? What if he attacks you outside? What if I walk in and find you dead? I won't risk losing someone I love by some maniac when I can put an end to it."

"I'm not gonna let you do this," she whispered, almost begging him to change his mind.

"There's nothing you can possibly do to stop me."

She kissed him, hard on the lips, pulling his body towards her, his hands immediately traveling to the small of her back. She kissed him fervently, passionately, moaning against his parted lips. She thought, for a moment, that sharing something as precious as a kiss would make him decline of his decision, but it didn't. He pulled away, slowly, moving his hands from her back to her face, caressing her warm cheeks.

"I love you, Sherlock," she whispered, tears now falling down her face, "Please, please don't do this."

"I'm sorry," he whispered back, "I have to. I'm sorry"

He was out of the door before she could beg him to stay one more time.

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.

.

"You're missing out quite a story back there," she told him after she found him sitting on a couch at the station. He had his eyes transfixed at some lost point on the wall and had refused to look at her when she walked in.

So instead of standing by the door, she sat in front of him, where he could see her.

"The stab wound he sustained? He claims he got it in a struggle, but I'm pretty sure if he had there would've been more damage."

"He presumed to know me, and he needed to be shown he did not"

"He says he's willing to confess all the murders, but he won't give you up," she continued.

"He thinks I'm the best chance he has to bringing whoever wronged him to justice" Sherlock spoke

"He killed Irene…"

"As it turns out, he did not," he whispered, "he was incarcerated at the time of her murder."

She stood up, walked towards him, and took a sit by the empty spot on the couch. He followed her with his eyes, shifting, so they were a little bit closer

"You scared me," she told him, "for a moment I thought I would lose you"

"For a moment you did," he confessed, "I hesitated and even now I'm not certain if I did the right thing in allowing M to live. But when I had my chance I saw you, I heard your voice, saw your face and I stopped. I couldn't allow you to suffer because of me, I couldn't be the cause of your pain…I'm sorry."

"I know," she pulled him towards her, his head resting on her shoulder as she ran her hands through his head. She felt him kiss her shoulder, trailing soft kisses up her neck, then into her cheek until he reached her lips. Even though he was almost never open into showing any display of affection in public, she didn't stop him this time, mainly because she needed it more than she was willing to admit.

They broke apart when air became a problem but still remained close enough to fell each other's warmth.

"I love you," he whispered. She smiled at how open and how easy it was for him to say those words.

"I love you, too," she responded, dropping one last kiss to his lips.

THE END

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